


Nora, I Will See You Again

by CleaveTheClover (Chasing_Gumdrops)



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28626717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chasing_Gumdrops/pseuds/CleaveTheClover
Summary: Who is Nora? What is her relationship to Cypher, and when will he see her again?AKA a series of oneshots, each devoted to a potential relationship dynamic. Daughter, Wife, Sister, Niece, etc. with variations of alive or deceased.
Relationships: Cypher & Nora (VALORANT), Cypher (VALORANT)/Original Character(s), Cypher/Nora (VALORANT), Cypher/Omen (VALORANT)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. I: Daughter (Living)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Junebloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junebloom/gifts).



> Good morning, afternoon, or aftermidnight!
> 
> 'Nora, I will see you again' is the only in-game reference to Nora (hence the fic title), wherein her relationship to Cypher himself isn't actually clear. The voice actor confirmed that she's his wife, but oh well, who are we fic readers/writers if we don't mess with the canon?
> 
> NOTE: I am also attempting to write in more varied tones/moods/styles of narration, so if certain sections seem clunky and strangely narrated I am sorry >.<

Quite frankly, Nora had been an accident. 

Upon hearing the news that Naima was pregnant, he’d gone numb. Shell-shocked. Of course he loved his wife with the entirety of his being, and was more devoted to her sweet caresses and the sheer beauty of her wit than anything else on this world. But a child? No, no, he was not ready for that. 

Nevertheless the months steadily went by. Naima was as intelligent as ever, although occasionally grouchy and frail. Aamir continued to hustle for funds, rustling around in the white, grey, and black markets alike. Money was always nowhere to be found, and when it was, it was gone in the next instant. Nothing was permanent, and yet that very principle was the constant undercurrent of their meager life. 

By day, they came across as a typical poor Moroccan couple, barely scraping by in the chaotic life of Rabat’s outskirts. But by night, they fiddled with _gadgets_. Various spare parts that Aamir pulled from wherever he could, and coupled with Naima’s insight and brilliance, they were a force to be reckoned with. 

Nora was born on the hottest day to date in their district, mere hours after Aamir and Naima finalized a working prototype of the former’s signature tripwire. (In fact, Naima had gone into labor mid-whoop, and had to immediately be whisked off.) The family liked to joke that the wire was Nora’s twin sibling, and would celebrate its birthday in conjunction with Nora’s.

Like so many parents say, she grew up far too fast. One minute, she barely fit in her parent’s arms, the next her head eagerly hovered around knee-level, and then she could _talk_ \-- full sentences, full _conversations_ , even. She entered the workshop like a fish in water, insisting at the tender age of seven, and by the dawn of her ninth birthday, she could construct a tripwire in her sleep. 

Armed with her father’s mischievous glee and her mother’s intelligence, and with a dash of robust instinct that was purely her own, she was everything her parents ever hoped she’d be. 

Their family wasn’t the richest. Wasn’t the safest. Oftentimes unhappy, and with another whole mouth to feed, desperate and despairing. There was no way forward, no way up, but no way in hell were they going backwards and down. Time was relative, time meant little. Money meant much, and yet next to nothing. Satisfaction was never wholesome, if it could ever be achieved. But somehow they made it though the years, united by loyalty and perhaps even necessity. It was treacherous joy and misery, bundled into one. 

At least, Aamir thought he knew what misery was. 

Then they lost everything. 

Naima fell ill with an aggressive form of cancer. Aamir begged any source he could, promising to pay anything, groveling at anyone’s feet like a madman. He forfeit almost everything he feasibly could: food, drink, what little funds he could have spent on his own sustenance.

There was no luck, of course, nothing for the poor on the Rabat’s outskirts. Smiles the couple once shared in their workshop together rapidly turned into tears shed by Aamir alone, Nora’s own flowing freely in the next room. 

But even that didn’t last for long. 

On a rare excursion, Aamir took Nora several districts away from theirs, to negotiate with an underground doctor. He’d prepared as well as he could; best dressed, some cash on hand, and with pictures of the doctor’s children stored in his breast pocket, if blackmail was necessary. Barely twelve, Nora understood the moral evil of that tactic, but acknowledged that her mother’s medical state and the underbellies of Rabat held sway over high-minded creed. 

No sooner had they entered the gates of the foreign sub-sector had a massive explosion erupted to the east. Tongues of silver-black arching up into the sun-bathed sky, a deafening blast, and the feeling of the entire city being sucked dry. Shock reverberated, both as the resulting sonic wave but resonating in the hearts of the people. Never had Nora imagined such destruction. Never had Aamir heard such a sweltering silence, swirling through the heat-shimmering air once the Explosion’s bright light had faded. 

Naima was gone. Aamir didn’t need cams, didn’t need tripwires, didn’t need any other gadgets to see that. There was no way she had survived that… _thing_. Whatever it was. 

It had spanned at least three whole districts. Fifty minutes of hustle-walking, he estimated, to span the diameter of the eruption; that wasn’t counting for navigability and internal traffic on the streets. It had consumed their district’s mosque’s singular tower-- a local landmark-- about ten minutes of hustle-walking from home. It was gone. Decimated. Vaporized. Nullified. 

Like Naima. 

The loss sent him reeling. Normal appetite or sleep schedule went out the window, and he began to aimlessly wander the streets at whichever odd time. Perhaps he might have killed himself if not for his love for Nora. 

She held him up through his disintegration. Following instinct, wit, and memory, she forged her own web of entities and opportunities and took up hustling and money-shuffling, pulling financial weight for them both. She patiently allowed Aamir to tinker in the workshop, wearing away at the amorphous, never-abating swirl of time and grief, guilt and sorrow. It was here that he first made his signature mask, the final design for the tripwire, and the second prototype of his cyber cage-- designs that Naima had wanted to make but never got to, or never finished. Each brought more tears than the last.

It was during this time that Kingdom weaseled its way into the heart of Rabat. Hideous towers and reactors were suddenly erected as the company pronounced ‘new regulations’ and ‘increased safety procedures’. 

Of course, Aamir was suspicious. And furious. What were they doing in his beautiful Moroccan city, building these things atop _his wife’s unsalvaged dead body_? Atop the uncounted numbers of Rabat’s perished citizens? This was detestable, unforgivable. 

Nora, now fifteen, was eager to see her father with a new light in her eyes, although concerned as to its fuel. She knew the dark, vengeful flame, she’d lived beside it and within it for three or so years now. This corporation had robbed her of her home, her mother, and to an extent, half of the father she once knew. Who was she _not_ to have that same fire searing through her veins? 

But her instinct, pungent but not as powerful, touted doubt.

Before long Cypher began investigating the tech company, with Nora (now known as Rune) as a dutiful yet mildly reproachful assistant. Kingdom kept their heads down for a year or so, gleaning more and more of a mysterious substance named Radianite. Evidently it was powerful; extracted lab reports and other classified documents spoke of the substance with reverence. But there were several suspicious and devious happenings as well. 

Kingdom was responsible for the explosion. The one that killed Naima. The one that had taken everything away from them, and they planned to make _more_. Cypher’s blood boiled, and Nora’s turned cold. 

The duo’s curiosity and backburner rage only grew. They were frightened but curious, bitter and yet in awe. He had to stop them. She had to know more. Soon they found themselves weaving a vast information network spanning every possible communication channel, outfitted with the best of their gadgets. Any developments were instantly known and documented. 

Unbeknownst to Cypher, Nora’s doubt never settled. He never turned his back on her, thankfully, but the icy caresses of his grief for Naima pulled them ever further apart. She knew he was sneaking onto Kingdom’s grounds by night, ruthlessly wreaking havoc and committing horrors she’d never know. He was obviously itching for something more, and well… she didn’t know what she wanted. Her mother? Peace? Kingdom’s destruction? 

Every day she pondered the losses, the crimes, and the aspirations they fought for. Every day, the answers eluded her. Empty desolation was all she awoke to, nauseating helplessness what she fell asleep to. Yet she dutifully followed her father’s tracks, like an obedient duckling seeking approval.

Nevertheless they persisted, donning the twin cloaks of this two-faced life as they struggled through this unexpectedly altered world. All their little secrets, all their little livelihood, bundled in a small, dingy Moroccan home of two. 

Then the Protocol came knocking on the door. 

* * *

Literally. Both residents nearly jumped out of their skins at the sound of knuckles on wood, because they’d always arranged for meeting places to be outside their home. That was infinitely more secure than meeting directly at the home and workshop. 

Aamir was even more surprised to find an East Asian woman on his doorstep. There were very few of those out here in this sector of Rabat, even though it was closer to the epicenter of the city than his old home was. Even more interesting was her traditional garb-- a white robe with jade-green hems, neatly tucked into a cyan-blue rope with an oriental knot on her centerline. The low dip in the robe’s V-neck showed no skin, as a cleanly black turtleneck stretched all the way up to her chin. 

She introduced herself as Sage, from the anti-Kingdom organization of VALORANT. Her colleagues had been tracking the Moroccan base, labeled as ‘Bind’ in their slang. She explained the worldwide evils that Kingdom had been committing, hoarding Radianite for devious purposes, and how the path to counter them was “righteous.” Eventually, she finished her rambling with a resolute punctuality, requesting for Cypher’s aid; it was clear in her tone of voice that she wasn’t giving much of a choice. 

_Your intelligence and tech are more valuable than you realize, Cypher._ She noted. _And is certainly of more use to an already fully mobilized organization than to mere vigilantes._

The Moroccan duo met Sage beside the Weaver-shop the following day. As they marched through the streets toward their transport, Cypher was almost purring with giddy elation, readying himself for the life ahead of him. Unquestionably dangerous, he would admit, but how could he turn down an offer to tip the balance against Kingdom? The low rumblings of his grief for Naima coiled and hissed in approval as he made every step closer to his destiny. They wanted his tech-- Naima’s tech. A flurry of pride rose up despite the contracting of his throat. She would be remembered her inventions. Their lifetime together, sharing love and witty humor and common suffering and all the memories and events, the way he knew she was the love of his life every time he even so much as set eyes on her, the feel of her hands in his hair and her shining eyes and a scent he no longer remembered and… and… and… her death.

Her death would not be in vain, not when every damn choice Cypher had ever made had led him here. Naima had mattered. Kingdom was going to _pay_.

No matter how much blood it took.

On the other hand, apprehension set Nora’s teeth on edge. Rabat was all she’d ever known— the sand, the sun, the meaningless scamperings of the poor. She’d never imagined leaving. Even now that she could, she doubted the outcomes of joining this shadow organization— Sage had not detailed the exact inner mechanics of the Protocol, but Nora could guess. For all the promised glory and purpose, the recruits would face only brutal conquest and dirty, hopeless death. Was that the mission she wanted? Was that the death she wanted? Was that what her _mother_ would have wanted?

Nonetheless her father’s sense of glory was infectious, and she found herself eagerly striding just half a step behind him. With the fire they had toyed with… of course the dual-livelihood was dangerously temporary. Had the Protocol not intervened, Kingdom would have eventually caught them, and punished them as they saw fit. They were bound for treachery either way. In a way, the Protocol was a luscious saving grace. They could chase Kingdom, not the other way around. 

But all hope was quickly shattered. 

_I’m sorry, Cypher. Your daughter can’t join us. She’s too young._ A broad-shouldered man with graying hairs and a red cap looked upon the pair with a pitying gaze. _You’re gonna have to come alone._

Nora swore her father visibly recoiled. Though masked, the disgusted narrowing of the bionic-blue eyes was clear. He bristed, a moment of stunned silence before he lashed out. 

_No. I’ve already lost my family,_ he hissed. _I won’t feel that pain again!_ Naima’s frail body flashed before his eyes. In bearing Nora, in bearing cancer. He remembered her strength, now _Nora’s_ strength, and the Explosion that had snuffed it out like it meant nothing. _Kingdom is murdering my city. I will_ _not_ _leave Nora vulnerable to that._

_Nora will die several times over by accompanying you to the Protocol. She is safer here._

_Bullshit_. Cypher had spent his whole life bargaining, thrown everything away towards it. But this? This was wrong. He would not make this deal. _She is all I have left, as I am to her. She will be safer at my side, as I will be safer by hers. I will not abandon her._

But the Protocol would not give in. They had their hearts set on Cypher, and Cypher alone. As Nora was two years short of legal age, she could not become a Valorant mercenary. They cared not for her skill with gadget-making, for her observant nature and sharp instinct, for her tactic-design or whatever skills Cypher could weave into being necessary for war. Nora asked if she could accompany her father as an advisor, never touching the battlefront. The Agents refused. 

In the end Nora caved first, much to the chagrin and despair of her father. Not believing herself, she supplemented that she had learned to properly navigate the undergrounds of Rabat thanks only to him; if she kept her head down from then on out then perhaps she could survive right under Kingdom’s nose.

With every word that escaped her, the years-old clawing doubt dissolved into satisfaction. Revenge was not her taste, it never was. But more pressing was the rattling nag of regret, rising up her spine in a tangled net. She may spurn the path her father walked, but never had she thought to fully part from his side. He raised her, guided her, nurtured her and loved her. He trusted her with every ounce of his being as she did to him, as she protected him for the past four years. She was not meant to leave his side, was she? But she had no choice. 

Cypher gaped, dumbfounded and slack-jawed, willing himself not to grotesquely sob right then and there. Nora was not coming. Nora was ordered to stay behind. The alter-ego Rune was destroyed in the interest of safety, abandoning her partner in crime. The air felt empty, sucked dry like it had been all those years ago, except this time the Explosion was only inside his heart.

There was no sound, no voice, no love. For the first time in decades, he found himself alone. 

So yet again, the Moroccan family was ripped apart. 

As the helicopter lifted off the ground and into the dry air of the capitol city, Aamir could only stare at his precious child, taking her in through the still-open side door. Memories flew across his mind like the pages of a book rapidly turning in brisk wind. Naima’s wonderful mind and soul shaped him into a better man; he hadn’t wanted a child, but was blessed with the birth of Nora; they were tinkering with her in the workshop; he barely survived after Naima was cruelly wiped off the face of the earth… and then. He and Nora created that underground tech web together. When grief was too raw for love, when hopelessness and rage snuffed affection, they could turn to each other, and to that secret. Now it was no more. Now, he faced a different life, a greater purpose. 

Nora, still in shock at her own words, almost chased after the aircraft, but knew better. She was not to board. Already, she missed the touch and guidance of the daring, mischievous genius that raised her. Would her father ever return, or was this the last time she would ever set eyes on him? Would he be killed on the battlefield, wherever that would be? Would the Protocol care for him, as the Moroccan family had cared for each other? He deserved nothing less, no matter how he chose to live. 

In their final moments of eye contact, she reached a final hand towards the aircraft, stretching up to the cloudless sky. Aamir removed his mask and bellowed into the whipping wind, as if sensing her unspoken questions. His voice grated with stringing pain and tears freely cascaded down his face, but he made no effort to wipe them away. The chopper’s noise almost obscured the familiar voice, but its words were heard nonetheless: a promise Aamir would keep.

 _Nora_ , _I will see you again!_


	2. II: Wife (Deceased)

Omen liked to talk about death. 

How it felt, in oppressive darkness, to be ripped apart. How many times, in searing screams, he’d departed from this godawful world. How the kills and the deaths formed a hazy pyramid of skulls upon which Sage could charge her ultimate. What it meant, to have pieces siphoned off, one by one, and pasted back onto each other in a motley, misshapen heap. 

But to _shatter?_

No. Omen had never come close, and never, ever would. He could physically come close to Cypher: ripping the Moroccan flesh open with claws pinched dearly on the insides of tanned thighs, caressing the Moroccan flesh with whispered words of love, stretching the Moroccan flesh with hips angled in just the ~~wrong~~ right way; over and over again, he could die like it meant nothing. But he would _never_ know what it meant to shatter, and walk away barely intact. 

Cypher could still hear the noise. Her voice, as he'd buried himself in her, her cries, as she'd bore his children. He was young then, happy to be nothing more than a desert rat, grateful that he could keep them alive with nothing more than a sharp mind (nevermind what it was used for). He hadn’t felt beautiful, but knew what he had was. 

But God was cruel. God was more cruel than any man, woman, or child that had ever walked this earth, choosing thunder-clap violence over floral-scented benevolence at every chance laid before it. Nora had died in Cypher’s arms, blood on the rocks upon which he knelt, giving nothing more in her last moments than an unfulfilled promise and a sigh. He’d always known his sins were punishable, but not by the theft of her life. 

Love was never a fair trade, was it? 

Ever since he’d buried her in the sand, he was haunted by the echoes: hearing without ears that awful choking breath and the simultaneous splintering of his own soul. 

It sounded like a rock thrown at a mirror. 

He knew, because he’d done that when no longer able to bear meeting himself in the eye. 

Omen might have felt the incessant lust of death brush his cheek hundreds of times. He might have danced within its greedy tendrils, learning to embrace that which tortured and yet evaded him. But that shadow had never lost the embrace of someone who had made him whole. Death would always be home for the wraith, but for Cypher, death had all but stolen his. 

Omen was torn. Cypher had been shattered. 

At least the shadow thought it could heal him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, headcannons, and ideas welcome in the comments! I will try to reply to them all :)


End file.
